Coming from Kish, I met Abrahamâs child
Who said: My vision is mere granite
Set in the wasteland. Nearby, on the gravel,
Nearly gone, a broken face lies, whoâs sullen

Lined lips. and harsh authority,
Speak to me of a maker who knew too well the obsessions
Which we live by, marked on unconscious things,
While our hands lift ancient texts and the spirit that made them;

Here its legend still taunts:
âIâm called Pathos, law of laws:
Look at what I can do, all who would persuade, and give up!â
But it gives me a headache and a back ache.

What else is there? Look around,
Beyond what is left of the works of Death. Ceaseless and exposed,
This solitary and flat world extends beyond night.